


Moominvalley Meanderings

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Fuck Snuf Up [2]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Bad Ending, Blood, Bugs, The Joxter is a Bad Person, a touch of horror, but literally nothing happens in this story, not a damn thing, not for the squeamish?, the Joxter wins worst father of the year award
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-03 18:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14002083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: The Joxter enjoys a relaxing day.





	Moominvalley Meanderings

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sharks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13296948) by [Sp00py](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py). 



> Please take note of the tags prior to reading

Based on the scents in the wind and the sights of the forest, the Joxter knew when it was time to do certain tasks, such as raiding farmer’s crops, rolling new tobacco, eating to excess, or hibernating. Now it was the time when the sun was hottest, when leaves at the very tops of the trees shriveled, when the air was thick and heavily perfumed, while all the blackberries, blueberries, boysenberries, and strawberries were fat and ripe. It was a time for fingers to be pricked from berry plucking, a time for heat-drowsy naps, a time to stay near streams rimmed with mud.

It was time, most of all, for the least amount of work to be done. Therefore, the Joxter’s morning had been an unusual one, as it contained quite a bit of work. But the Joxter was not _only_ lazy; he liked to plan, when the inkling struck him, to make the remaining heat-baked days as pleasant and quiet as possible. In fact, he felt immensely content about his choice to invest a little bit of work, for now he had a whole peaceful afternoon ahead of him, and beyond that, a lifetime. Perhaps he should have invested in this work years ago, but Joxters weren’t ones for ‘if onlys’ and ‘what ifs.’ Joxters preferred the present, thank you very much, because why fuss and worry things that had already happened?

The best way to appreciate the present was with a nap, and so the Joxter did just that. First, of course, he rinsed his face, his overcoat, and his paws, and disposed of his gloves (a pity they were ruined, but there was nothing more to be done about that). Then, he found a place deep in the woods, where long ropy vines formed a gentle u-shape, where someone so light as a Joxter could recline as if it were a hammock. 

He clambered right up, and there he swayed, dozing as sunlight filtering down upon him from above. All his muscles were sore, but with a good stretch and his mind lulling between asleep and awake, he couldn’t be bothered by it. Just as dreams were beginning to flit at the edges of his consciousness, and as the senses of the surrounding world were falling away, one boisterous voice remarked,

“For heaven’s sake, won’t you get up and _do_ something?”

Moominpappa’s voice, if he was not mistaken. It was certainly his scent, that of freshly cut cedar, phenol-riddled ink, and paper. The Joxter sighed, and opened one eye. “ _Should_ I do something?”

Moominpappa’s face reddened like a spring tomato, and he emitted several flustered noises – the audacity, the temerity! Doing nothing in such circumstances! Imagine!

It seemed like such an awful amount of work, being Moominpappa. Joxter felt tired simply watching him. 

“It’s your son!” Moominpappa finally burst out with. 

“Ah. Isn’t that dreadful?”

“It’s a terrible, terrible thing… Poor Moomintroll was the one who found… I hardly can imagine what might have happened.” Moominpappa shook his head. “We must hold on to hope.” He peered at the Joxter with his tiny eyes, “You were just keeping on the lookout, weren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Of course.” This seemed to bring a great deal of relief to Moominpappa, who dabbed at his brow with a cloth. “Of course, this must be very hard on you, you must feel very helpless.”

“Oh, yes.”

“It would help if you helped us,” Moominpappa added.

“Would it?”

“I should think so. Don’t Joxters such as yourself know the forest, as if you were part of it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well.” Moominpappa looked expectantly at the Joxter. The resulting silence went on far longer than a normal person would feel comfortable with. Clearly more was expected of him.

The Joxter sighed. “Well, I had better do something, then.”

“Right you should!” 

What a circular conversation. The Joxter slid from his vines and crushed lilyflowers underfoot. “Goodbye then,” he said, and sticking his hands in his pockets, began to walk away.

“Well hold on there just a moment-“ Moominpappa trotted after him, “shouldn’t we search together? Get two pairs of eyes on the lookout together?”

“I should think not. That’s half as much searching.”

“I suppose, but-“

“No, I’ll do my best on my own.” That was that, and the Joxter slunk away quickly. 

 

A tickle of annoyance lingered in his chest, like a briar snagging on fabric, because that spot had been a very cozy one, and the scents of flowers rich and lulling. A pity that Moominpappa had stumbled across him. The Moomins did not normally travel so far from their residence – at least, Moominpappa and Moominmamma did not, though Moomintroll liked to follow Snufkin about. These were different circumstances, though, and maybe they were feeling more motivated. 

Joxter scoffed, and plucked a honeysuckle as he drifted by. His tongue thoughtfully touched the dewy stem.

Surely it wasn’t that difficult to follow the trail? The Joxter had not intended on covering his tracks, or going about the tedious business of making it look like nothing had happened. The Moomins really had no reason to wander so far, if they had any sense at all about tracking. 

The Joxter circled back towards the Moomin’s residence, with its appropriately wild garden and the nearby stream. This is where Snufkin had pitched his tent, neatly by the riverside on a patch of short dark green grass. 

The open flaps of his tent rustled listlessly in a tired breeze that did nothing to abate the heat. Even from here, the Joxter could smell the heavy metallic reek of blood. He didn’t need to get any nearer to know of the rusty splatters soaking into the earth in and around the tent. 

The Joxter turned and ambled away, loosely following the path he had taken this morning. Just as he had thought, the trail was not at all difficult to follow. Firstly, from blood spatters and foot prints. Then, from snapped twigs and torn leaves. Once, a ripped bit of green cloth. Then past that, the bitter lingering stench of blood and tobacco smoke. 

This was downright clumsy, if the Joxter were being honest with himself, though he didn’t entirely mind. It was remarkable the Moomins knew no better than to scatter themselves in all remote areas of the valley, ignoring completely the clear line straight to what they were looking for. How silly, to be so round and toddling and absolutely unaware of nature’s signs. 

Mymbles were quite different. Sly, small, tough, and sharp. They darted in the underbrush, unheard and unseen. They could smell like a Joxter smells, and see like a Snufkin sees, and knew all the forest better than their own homes – assuming they had homes. 

The Joxter would like to see a Mymble out a-searching – the whole investigation would be over quickly. Then again, it was for the best that no Mymbles had joined in. They’d make trouble for him in the end.

Within a mere two hours, the Joxter had wandered to where he had earlier washed himself clean. This part of the forest spoke of youth and fresh starts and energy. The leaves were a richer, younger green, tree trunks ambitious but precariously narrow, and spurts of flowers trembling on their greenwhite stems. Here, a small spring bubbled up chilly water from the earth, quite unaware of just how hot the world was right now.

The Joxter touched his tongue to his lips. What a lovely place. He knelt by the spring and cupped the crystalline water in his palms. Sunlight cast fractals from its glistening surface. When he brought the water to his mouth, it was sweet, cool, and pure, and he helped himself to several more sips. A reverential noise, somewhere between a purr and a moan, rumbled from his chest. 

This, he decided, was a better place for a nap after all. 

He didn’t hesitate to curl up in a nearby bed of pink wildflowers. The sun cast rays onto his back, warming him through the fabric of his overcoat. With one final gentle yawn, he slipped into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

 

“Sir! Mr. Joxter, sir!”

The air carried a hint of coolness, the suggestion of night trying to claw its way through the heat. 

“Oh, please wake up!”

The Joxter peered up from beneath the brim of his hat, the ocean blue of his eyes glittering. The sky overhead was blazed with pinks and oranges. “Moomintroll, isn’t it?”

The young Moomin was wringing his tail in his paws. “I’m so anxious, Mr. Joxter. You haven’t seen Snufkin around here, have you?”

“Not around here.” 

“Oooh, no.” Moomintroll looked left and right. “We’ve been searching for poor Snufkin all day and there hasn’t been a single sign of him!”

“You all seem to be very good at finding me.”

Moomin did not appear to hear him. “Aren’t you worried?” he pleaded. “Gosh, I’d be so worried – I am so worried! But being that he’s your son and all – you don’t know where he might be, do you?”

“Not at all, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, drat… Do you think he’s okay?”

“Should you be heading home?” The Joxter asked, pointing up at the sky. “It will be dark soon.”

“I can’t go home yet! Not without knowing that Snufkin is safe!”

“Ah, well.”

“Mr. Joxter, you don’t think he’s – I mean…” Moomin glanced away. “His tent… but he can’t – he wouldn’t be- what would even do something like that?”

The Joxter sighed. 

“No, he must be okay,” Moomin reassured himself. “Snufkin always knows how to handle every situation! Even when things get tricky or scary, Snufkin’s always got a solution!”

“He might be in his favorite glen,” the Joxter said.

“What?” Moomin nearly dropped his tail in shock. “What do you mean? He has a favorite glen? I didn’t know that! Would he be there?”

“Mhmm. There’s one five hundred or so steps that direction,” the Joxter pointed, “and you turn towards where the sun sets, and walk until you see moss all around the tree trunks, not just on one side. Then you turn to the boughs that form a small arch, and go about that aways until you smell fresh mud, and poison oak. You’ll be near the stream, and the air will be heavier.”

Moomintroll stared. 

“I hear Snufkin likes to go there,” the Joxter added helpfully, though he had never heard of any such thing. 

“Y-you think? But after the sight of his tent – well, gee, I don’t know if he’s –“ Moomintroll wrung his tail hard.

Such a ruckus, such distress. 

The Joxter stood and extricated Moomin’s tail from his hands. “It does no good to stand here twisting your tail. Go on, look for the glen.”

“You really think he might be there?”

The Joxter nodded. “He’s there if he’s anywhere.”

“Uh, what were the directions again?”

The Joxter made a low humming noise. He pointed. “That way. You’ll find it.”

“Whu- but, that’s not as difficult as you-“

“That way,” the Joxter said firmly, a growl at the end of his words, and he nudged Moomin’s back hard.

“A-all right – are you sure you can’t come along with me-?” 

But the Joxter already turned and disappeared into the underbrush, going in the very opposite direction. While Moomin went on a wild goose chase, the Joxter chose to follow the trail he had earlier abandoned in favor of a nap. 

The Joxter really didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. It was only one Snufkin, and there was quite a lot of Snufkins to choose from. No, many of them didn’t hang around in these parts, but if you wanted to go looking for a Snufkin you’d eventually find one, perhaps by the riverbank with one foot dangling into the cool waters; perhaps sitting at the trunk of an old oak, playing a tune like the call of birds; perhaps darting hidden in the purple haze of evening and the rich green leaves, mouth set in a determined line, ready to uproot Park Keeper signs. 

Snufkins were not so hard to find, if you knew where and how to look. Surely the Moomins could find one that wasn’t so clingy? One that wasn’t so needy? Or maybe Moomins liked that sort of thing. 

The Joxter, however, didn’t. People need not be so energetic, so eager, as that Snufkin had been. As soon as the Joxter had come back to Moominvalley, Snufkin had toddled after him, always asking for stories and adventures. The Joxter loved stories as much as the next person but he wasn’t so sure he liked this Snufkin, and wasn’t so sure he liked being looked up to and having things expected of him. 

It seemed like such a great amount of work, being a father, and so the Joxter very simply had decided _not_ to be anymore. 

He was sure the Moomins would get over it eventually…. Until then, it would be best to take his naps away from Moominvalley.

The trail ended. No more snapped twigs, no more blood drops, no more faint scents to follow. Instead, there was only a stench, one putrid and invasive. The reek of meat just starting to rot, meat left out in the sun too long. The smell accompanied frantic exciting buzzing of flies. 

The Joxter held his sleeve over his mouth as he gazed down. There, nestled and nuzzled by moss and ferns, lay Snufkin. He wore a soft green overcoat, not too different from the Joxter’s, and a tattered green hat. Both were dusted with dark soil and dark blood. His midsection, where the most blood was congealed, couldn’t really be seen beneath the layers of black insects. His eyes, meanwhile, were fogged over in death, and his expression frozen in perpetual horror.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been so needy,” the Joxter told Snufkin matter-of-factly. A black beetle scuttled its way over Snufkin’s cheek. It paused, tiny antennae flicking over the corner of Snufkin’s eye, mandibles working quietly. Then it darted up his eye and vanished into his scalp. 

The Joxter lit his pipe, placed it neatly between his teeth, and walked away.


End file.
